he walks to his car,
pops in a cd,
and let’s his mind go numb,
using his subconscious,
to check the rear view mirror
and his speedometer.

a hour of what-ifs,
blue-sky sailing,
and only the bottoms,
of the bathing suits,
of all on board,
and only a worry of wind and waves.

he pops the clutch and shifts,
into overdrive…
it’s only yellow dashes,
that turn into yellow lines,
and warren haynes sings,
of the cortez killer.

full sails and,
topless bodies,
of all on board,
and only worries of water and wine,
we have vision of making,
turks and caicos by nightfall.

he hits the garage door opener,
backs into the garage,
and turns off,
the ignition,
and snaps back to reality,
and the real world.

eying the flip-flops on the floor,
still with visions of anchoring,
in white sand,
and turquoise blue water,
with only a nav lights and stars,
to sleep by.